


To Kill a Consulting Detective

by Vortex



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Beta Wanted, Gen, Reichenbach Falls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-07 00:33:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1113368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vortex/pseuds/Vortex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock Holmes needs some "help" faking his own death, he turns to someone who's an expert in disappearing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Kill a Consulting Detective

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, fabulous reader, and thank you for deeming this acceptable enough to open!
> 
> This was beta'd, but not britpicked, so if someone would be (gloriously) willing to aid in that attempt, I am all ears.

He'd kept her number, of course, despite what John told him. But since when had Sherlock Holmes ever listened to his flatmate? And although she frequently changed numbers, she was always sure to text him the new one, just in case something were to come up. He'd almost completely forgot about it until there was a series of break-ins, a reporter named after a miniature feline, and the promise of a fall. And it wasn't until it felt like the outside world had frozen over and the sun suddenly went around the earth (or was it the other way around?) that he finally gave in and dialed the number. He held his breath as the small device rang, and his heart raced almost as fast as his head. No one could deny that Sherlock was a genius; he'd identified 243 types of tobacco ash, could spot a drunk by his phone and two people shagging by their deodorant. But asking for help was not in the vocabulary of one Sherlock Holmes; he'd become so unaccustomed to the idea that he'd almost forgotten how. He nearly hung up the phone, despising the idea of needing anything from anyone, except the other side clicked on with a sultry voice. 

"I was sitting here thinking you'd forgotten about me."

There was an uncharacteristically long pause. "How could I forgot about you with you badgering me with texts asking me to dinner when it's obvious that we're–"

"Sherlock," she said, "you know I'd _love_ to hear you talk _all day_ but I'm on a bit of a tight schedule so–"

"I need your help." There. He had said it, and hopefully fast enough to save himself any physical pain.

Another pause. "What was that?" He could hear her relishing every syllable.

Of course she would force him to admit it _again_. He had to stop himself from ending the call that very minute, reminding himself of the reason he was doing any of this in the first place. "I said I need your help."

He could see the smirk on her lips, despite the distance between them. "With what, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock let out a breath he wasn't aware of taking in. "I need to kill myself."

 

***

 

She'd been following the trial, of course, that of Moriarty and the internet-famous consulting detective acting as an expert witness. She had to be honest; she was surprised that Moriarty hadn't played with Holmes more. He talked as if the detective was the most delectable toy to wind up and watch run around, but now he was just going to throw him off a rooftop, or so she'd been told. And after much teasing on her part and an exchange of "Beg for it" and "I have never begged for anything in my life", she felt particularly nostalgic and finally gave him what he needed: the telephone number of a group of people who helped those in his particular situation. After dictating the exact words he must use (for the wrong words would lead to his very permanent demise) she hung up with a final "Good luck."

He quickly dialed the new number while still high on adrenaline; it was like the thrill of the chase or staring down the barrel of a gun, something to do with holding his own mortality in the palms of his hands.

The other end picked up after the second monotone ring and Sherlock couldn’t say he wasn't surprised at what he heard.

"You've reached Janus Cars. How may we assist you today?"

 

***

 

Sherlock's death arrived on his doorstep on a Saturday night in the form of a petit woman in her mid twenties with a black backpack. John answered the door when she arrived. He opened it just enough to peek his face over the side, but he was still assaulted by a biting wind.

"Hello. Is Sherlock Holmes in?" 

"Maybe. Who are you?" he said, as she shoved a pair of gloved hands deeper into her pockets.

"I'm here to help Mr. Holmes on a case."

"You–" he stopped, giving her a once over as if her physicality had something to do with the incredulity of the situation, "You're helping Sherlock on a case."

She gave him a light laugh in response, her breath turning into a white fog. "Believe me, when he called I was just as surprised as you are."

After one last glance, almost as if deeming her unarmed and harmless (a poor deduction on his part), he opened the door fully to admit her, quickly shutting it to contain the remaining warm air in the flat. John followed her up the stairs, suddenly wondering how the _hell_ she knew where she was going and realizing that Sherlock would rather die than ask someone for help. He could feel his rapid heartbeat in his fingertips.

"Sherlock, there's someone here to see you," he called up the stairs just as she reached the top and entered apartment B.

Sherlock's face was aglow from the screen of his phone, which he eventually shut off after a good minute of them standing in the doorway. The chair which normally seated clients was pulled out. John hadn't remembered Sherlock changing into his normal suit from his pajamas and dressing gown.

"Evening, Mr. Holmes." she said.

 

***

 

Sherlock gave her a quick glance. _Walked through Regent's Park, was in Paris during the last four days, late night last night._ It was odd how normal, how _human_ his death appeared.

"John, white envelope on the desk." he said, eyes remaining on her for a moment before slipping away.

She moved farther into the room as John pushed past her. 

"What are these?" he asked upon removing two slips of paper from the envelope.

"Tickets," Sherlock said quickly, returning to his phone, "to that band you like. The lead singer owes me a favor. They're playing at Albert Hall in an hour. You should get going."

"There's two in here."

"One for you and one for that girlfriend of yours."

Silence. John was surprised no one could hear the alarms going off in his mind. Sherlock doesn't do nice things for people. Period. "Sherlock, I don't have a girlfriend."

"I'm sure you'll be able to find someone to go with." He almost shoved John out the door and down the stairs, the shorter man’s complaints sounding throughout the building. He was able to stop Sherlock's bullying right before he was pushed out into the freezing night with no more than a jumper on.

"Sherlock," he said, bringing himself up to his full height and lowering his voice, "what’s going on? And what’s that woman doing here?” 

“She’s helping–”

“You don’t ask for help on cases. Besides, you’re not even working on one right now.” 

Sherlock spoke every word slowly and with caution hidden beneath each one, despite the urgent need to get John out of the building. “It’s a case I’ve been working on for a while, along with my others.”

The doctor didn’t move.

“Please, John.” The words held a fragility John hadn’t known the detective possessed, almost as if the taller man would break if he pressed too hard. Sherlock pulled the door open, the wind sucking out all the warm air. “Just enjoy your birthday present.”

“My birthday’s not for another month–” The door snapped shut.

Of course Sherlock knew that, although unwilling to admit it.  But he also knew he wouldn’t be around for it.

 

***

 

The stairs creaked just before he entered the room, and the woman was sitting in the chair, the one he had pulled out for her. She scribbled in a notebook that was propped on her knee. Her backpack lay forgotten on the couch behind her. 

"That was kind of you," she said, not looking up.

"I try not to make a habit of it." he said, hands clasped behind him. He watched her out the corner of his eye, the way you would watch a shadow in a dark room to make sure it didn't suddenly start inching closer and closer. 

She finally looked up. "No need to look at me like that. If I killed you prematurely, I wouldn't get paid."

There was a silent moment of him deducing her more and her letting him. There was something off, something not quite right about her. The way her eyes never strayed from him, not even to question the skull on his mantel or the severed hand on the kitchen table…

"You don't work for Janus Cars. Who are you?"

A ghost of a smile shaped her lips. "I freelance my work. Janus Cars is one of my contacts. Every once in a while they get a case out of their depth and they call me."

"Hopefully you're better than the amateur who handled the Ian Monkford case."

The memory seemed to strike a sour chord with her. "I heard Mr. Ewart insisted on handling that one himself. Definitely more useful behind a desk. Although, none of their people have any _finesse_." She gave him a smile, one with a good amount of warmth for a contract killer. "They should be hiring you. Good work on Irene's death. Did you need to call in a favor with the American government to get her into that witness protection program?"

"You know her and you've been here before," Sherlock said quickly. It was a fact, not a question. "You're the one who put her phone on my mantelpiece."

She smiled. "Thanks for the introduction, but we should get started. I need to be back in Paris early tomorrow." 

Sherlock's lips turned into a knowing smirk as she turned to rummage through her backpack. "First thing's first, we need a body. I hear you have a connection over at St. Barts, which is good. It'll save us time. You're supposed to be dead in what? A month? And it's a fall, so it takes a bit more time to prepare..."

Pivoting on her heel she faced him, a cloth tape measure in her hand. She unrolled a portion of it and Sherlock straightened just a bit at the mischievous glint that suddenly appeared in her eyes. She was so reminiscent of _her_ that he couldn't help but feel just a tad uncomfortable, though he'd never show it.

"You're going to need to take your clothes off, Mr. Holmes."

 

 ***

 

It was incredible how well she'd come to know the consulting detective, although, how well can anyone _really_ know Sherlock Holmes? It was more than just knowing he preferred his coffee black with two sugars or that he always kept his phone in the inside pocket of his jacket. It was knowing the _why_ anyone _chose_ to do anything, like kill people professionally or live while being dead. Both usually fell into two categories, money or power. (Those always got messy, which was why she chose to dabble in a more humble clientele). It had become a personal goal of hers to figure out the why behind each client, but she had yet to discover his. He'd read her family issues in her mobile phone (a pattern he was noticing), her college education in her face, and ultimately uncovered her own reasons by himself. But Sherlock wasn't some big time CEO who would sell her secrets, nor was he a fellow criminal who would use them against her, so she found herself not caring like she normally would. 

There was a sort of sincerity about him that she couldn't quite put her finger on. The way he grumbled and groaned over how John hummed a full step off key as he made his morning coffee or the _irritating_ way Molly Hooper always asked if he wanted anything to eat even though she already knew the answer. Or how Mrs. Hudson would swoop in with her feather duster and ruin his dust lines, or how DI Lestrade could be so stupid; all the evidence was right under his nose! And she realized, as she stared up at Sherlock Holmes from the street below St. Bartholomew's Hospital, that they were his why, his reason for dying. 

 

***

 

Clouds hung low in the sky as she came to a halt next to the dark haired man. Mrs. Hudson and John were just stopping at the only black marble headstone in the cemetery. 

"Too bad Moriarty is dead. His partners were always a stable source of income." But she saw the look on his face. If she hadn't known better, she would have thought it was one of longing, but who really knows what goes on in that brain of his? 

"When do you think you'll be coming back?"

He didn't bother looking at her. "What makes you think I'm coming back?"

She looked up at him, then continued to observe his ex-landlady pick her way up the hill. "People like you never stay dead long. Need others to see just how clever they are for cheating death. When you do, I'd like to know." She handed him a white business card. Of course hired killers have business cards. "If you ever need someone to talk to, my phone's always on. Everyone always underestimates how hard it is to be dead."

"I don't think it'll be a problem." he said, even though he takes the card. Their hands don't touch in the slightest.

"Everyone always says that." Her characteristic light smile graces her lips. He hadn't noticed before. More like he hadn't bothered to look. Her smile was only a shape her lips made, completely emotionless. He could tell they used to hold something, whether it be love or sadness or superiority, he didn't know.

"Your plane leaves in two hours." She handed him a crisp, letter-sized envelope containing the foundations for his new life. He took a peak at his plane ticket; the destination was so stereotypical American, his alias so very, very British. He couldn't help the slight grin that came to his face. 

"I find the people there aren't exceptionally observant." She stuffed her hands back into the pockets of her black coat and only continued once John had disappeared over the crest of the hill. "Maybe you could meet up with Irene, bond over being dead. You don't have to stay there, of course. It's just a place for you to start. Try not to travel too much, but if you do, take short flights. Don't want someone staring at you on a plane and finding out who you are. And go somewhere with minimal media access. Just… keep as low a profile as you can."

Sherlock smirked. "This happens frequently then? You worry over those you help like a single mother fussing over her child taking the train alone for the first time?"  

His eloquence was always something she appreciated about him. "My clients are ultimately good people who don't deserve the bad things that have happened to them. With all the people I kill, I'd like to know at least some of them turn out alright afterwords." She offered him her hand and he took it; her fingertips were cold but her palm somehow retained warmth. There was no rigorous shaking, no shaking in the slightest, actually. There was only the two of them as the wind whipped around.

She broke the silence, that hollow smile on her lips again. "It was an honor to kill you, Mr. Holmes."


End file.
